


I Like It Like That (sequel to This Is Me Trying)

by Cassius_theCorrupterofSouls



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Arguing, Arranged Marriage, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Cousin Incest, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Don't Like Don't Read, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Foreplay, Getting Back Together, Hate to Love, Holidays, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Love/Hate, Making Love, Making Up, Marriage of Convenience, Married Couple, Not Canon Compliant, Past Miscarriage, Porn With Plot, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Second marriage, Sequel, Sex, Vaginal Sex, and, at least in the beginning, then turns into some, you don't have to read the first fic to read this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28297239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassius_theCorrupterofSouls/pseuds/Cassius_theCorrupterofSouls
Summary: After "accidentally" finding herself in bed with her husband the Lord Darnley following yet another of their arguments concerning the Crown Matrimonial she refuses to grant him, Mary learns two months later that she is pregnant with his child. Taking a leap of faith, despite her better judgement, she tells him of the news, and is surprised to learn that she feels just as pleased to have told him as he is to learn of their heir to be. What follows in the weeks to come, as the days count down to Christmas no less, is even more surprising however, as Mary begins to find herself not only desiring Darnley's company--a first for her where he is concerned--but is also starting to develop feelings for him as well, and she is left wondering whether he could possibly be harboring a secret fondness for her in return.Neither of them are wont to make the first move however, and it is not until Mary confesses the truth of her condition to her dear friend and lady Greer that Greer takes it upon herself to arrange an opportunity for the couple to reconcile their differences--and perhaps make their true feelings known to each other--just in time for the holiday.
Relationships: Lord Darnley/Mary Stuart (Reign)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	I Like It Like That (sequel to This Is Me Trying)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys. This is the sequel to my first Marnley fic that these characters have been basically nagging me at this point to write. (You don't have to read the first fic to read this one though, although I would greatly appreciate it if you read both.) I guess there was more to their story than I could possibly tell in the first fic and the result is this story here. As for my initial ideas for it, all I knew when I started working on it was that I wanted to write about Mary's pregnancy and how her relationship with Darnley would naturally change in light of their shared child to be. That is where I take some creative liberties with how I wrote them, as I found them both starting to act on their own accord as I wished they had acted while watching the show instead of necessarily "in character," although I do believe that the foundational traits of their respective characters still come through in this fic.
> 
> As for having it set around Christmas (and I don't know how successful I am of adding the holiday theme, please forgive me if it's terrible) that decision was made to merely uplift my own spirits after this trainwreck of a year we've all had. I had always wanted to write a fic set during Christmas and had toyed with adding such a scene to my ArMor fic, but dropped the idea before I ever sat down to write it. So when the desire struck me to write another Marnley fic and with the holiday season now upon us, I took a chance and wrote my first ever Christmas fic. I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> A short note about the title though. For the first fic, I named it (well renamed it actually) This Is Me Trying after the Taylor Swift song that I found myself listening to over and over again on repeat while writing it for a lack of knowing what to call it. Well, the same thing happened with the sequel. While writing it I found myself solely listening to Billie Eilish's "when the party's over," and yet again, without having any better idea of what to name the story, I titled it, not after the song's title, but after one line of the lyrics, since (I feel at least) that the song just fits Mary and Darnley so well. 
> 
> Lastly, since I'm posting this rather fittingly on Christmas Eve, I wish you all a Merry Christmas if you're celebrating. Hopefully 2021 will be a better year for us all. 
> 
> Much love and stay safe,  
> Joelle

Three months had passed since the late summer night Mary found herself reluctantly, resignedly in her husband’s arms, herself surprised and bewildered that she found his touch not all as displeasing and unconscionable as she once knew it and him to be. It had been a time of discovery, that night, where everything she thought she once knew and had come to understand about the second man she had married—not out of love, but dire necessity—was flipped on its head, leaving her dazed and disordered and with a lot on her mind to ponder where he, his wants and her own, were concerned. 

That night, he had come to her chambers requesting that she grant him at long last—after days and weeks and months of denying him—the Crown Matrimonial that would ensure his rise to Kingship upon the news of her most untimely death, and he had left that morning after oddly satisfied despite his spurned request. But that was perhaps to be expected after the night they had shared in-between making love and making up in the time betwixt times when all the world slumbered except them. She did not know then how she would think of him the morrow to follow that night of joint vulnerability and bliss—the document that threatened her rule still lying untouched on the study’s table, waiting to be addressed—but when she woke with him next to her in her bed, she found herself surprised at the calm that had suddenly fallen over her. She had not known then how she would contain him going forward, but she had a sense of certainty that she could handle him at least and that was the only resolve she had ever needed. And so, without uttering before him the sentence he expected following that night that was in so many ways his trial, she sent him from her bed with not so much as a word as to the verdict on her mind. And, much to her surprise, he had heeded her wish, leaving her to ponder over all the possibilities before her regarding their marriage, her rule, and his place within the two. 

It was not the only thing he had left her with that quiet morning of solace to think and to reflect and to plan what future there was left waiting for them.

* * *

Mary rested her hands gently over the slight swell of her stomach, as she stared out her chamber window at the dark sky drawing on to dusk, and the swirls of snow flurries carried on the wind. Outside it looked to be a chilled night, colder than most she experienced thus far since her return to Scotland. The last time she expected she had witnessed such a night in her homeland she had been just a babe newly borne, and she had little memories of those days in her country, herself being shipped off to France to be brought up there for her own safety at the tender age of five years old. It was still a shock to her to know that she had finally found her way back to her homeland after such a lifetime spent apart, herself now a woman of three and twenty years, who had married her first husband at fifteen, buried him at eighteen, and remarried despite her grieving heart at two and twenty. Even just today, she woke surprised to find herself not in the luxurious canopied bed she had shared with her first husband Francis while living in the French Court, but alone in her much more modest bed in the Scottish keep she now presided over. 

It was an adjustment, life in Scotland, like so many things this year were to her, among them her rather tumultuous marriage to her English half-cousin the Lord Darnley, and now the child she carried for him in her womb. 

The thought of her child, a son she hoped, caused a smile by reflex to grow upon her face. It was still early in her pregnancy—she had not known herself for certain until a month past when she failed to have her courses for a second time—and few around the Scottish Court knew she was with child. She had told her closest advisors of course—with the urgent request that they keep the matter hushed and secret until it came time for her to announce the matter publicly—and then, out of a leap of faith, she had conveyed the news to Darnley himself. She had been uncertain at first whether to tell him of the good news at all, but the look of stupefied delight on his face when she had, did not only reaffirm the soundness of her decision, but had sent an involuntary wave of pleasure through her own body. She had almost forgotten in that moment the difficulties their marriage presented them, the strain it took on them both, and the arguments they continued to have over the last months—even after that night they had found themselves against reason in each other’s arms, the night she conceived no less—regarding the unresolved Crown Matrimonial debate and the further delegation of their respective roles as husband and wife, Queen and King Consort. Neither of them was willing to back down concerning the issue it seemed and definitely not without first putting up a strong fight, but the news of the pregnancy, the promise of an heir and a future they could share together, temporarily paused for the last month the long debates they had held as if they had at last found some common ground to base their union upon.

They never did explicitly call a truce, nor petitioned each other for peace. It was simply understood by the both of them the moment she had conveyed to him that she carried his child in her womb that such discussions were off the table for the time being, however long that turned out to be. And it, their verbal ceasefire, was far from the only miraculous exchange to come out of her condition, or so Mary was starting to notice in the weeks that followed, as the last leaves fell from the trees and the land readied itself for the deep slumber of winter, while the people prepared for a Christmas like no other now that they had a Queen once more to share the joyous occasion with.

Somehow, just as easily as they had fallen back into their disagreeable ways after that night they had lain together, they had managed to find some semblance of understanding again between them, like they had that same night she had conceived, in light of their shared child to be. It did not happen overnight this unaccustomed easiness they now more or less enjoyed—though the neither of them was wont to admit it out loud to the other, let alone silently to him or herself—but gradually, as if they each simultaneously started to feel a slow, palpable draw to their child’s other parent. Mary felt it strongly, a sudden stubborn urge to have Darnley near and around her at more times than not, a need which she found foreign, incomprehensible, highly unlike herself, and yet, there it was. She supposed it was only natural, as he was the father of her unborn child, but still she could not bear to admit it to herself, let alone to him, that she had actually come to desire his company and find enjoyment in it. She still had her pride to uphold after all, which Darnley had wounded more than once with all his sordid habits he still more or less enjoyed, father to be or not—it seemed not to matter to him—and Mary, being beyond the point of caring where he and his lewd indulgences were concerned—or so she told herself daily—affirmed to herself silently that she would much rather go to her grave than admit aloud, to him most of all, the secret fondness she now held just for him. As for Darnley, she did not hear such a confession from his lips either, but she hoped, in spite of herself, that he also felt something of a similar sort for her, with how he continued to find and make time to speak with her—and not about issues of state, or rather more like him, the issue he made of his limited power as King Consort—but about herself, how she and the child were fairing. She found it sweet, his concern, and a part of her, damn her for thinking of it, enjoyed those small fleeting moments of conversation she had with him, herself wishing despite herself that they, and not her duties as Scotland’s Queen, were the sole concerns of her day. As of yet, she was still her kingdom’s monarch, and while foreign affairs quieted with the onset of winter, her people’s needs did not. 

Speaking of her people, some of them, the ones who found their work and place within the castle that was, were beginning to notice the unexplained change in the two of them as well. Just a week ago, while they were in the middle of sharing tea in her study, Greer had made a rather astute quip about her shifting relationship with her husband. 

“Is it just me or are the two of you actually speaking to one another again?” she had asked, raising her eyebrow with interest over her held cup.

In that instant, Mary had nearly spilled her tea, for her heart having skipped a dangerous beat. “Greer,” she had responded then with as much indifference as she could muster, “I am always speaking to Darnley, usually about politics and his damned persistence regarding the Crown Matrimonial, you know that.”

In truth, Greer knew that quite well, as Mary regaled her weekly when they sat to afternoon tea with each and every difficulty Darnley provided—whether that be his constant drinking, his less than discrete whoring, or just his infuriating sense of self-importance which proved problematic for her reign time and time again that she hardly knew why she was still married to him (oh yes, she remembered, because his family’s allies could earn her the English throne)—as only a lifelong friend such as herself could put up with. 

“ _Usually_ ,” Greer remarked then, taking a sip of her tea. “But Mary, now that I recall, you haven’t complained about Darnley at all these last two weeks. Forgive me for noting, but that is rather _unlike_ you.”

Mary flushed, a warm becoming pink in light of the afternoon sun brightening the chamber. She felt her heartbeat quicken, and she wanted to chastise herself for the very fact that mere mention of her husband and their joint secret elicited such a reaction out of her. She sighed, setting her cup down on its saucer. “Alright, Greer,” she said then, “you have me. Damn your observant mind, but yes, I’m not sure how long it will last but things have noticeably changed between Darnley and me. I’m,” she confessed, looking self-consciously down at her stomach, “pregnant with his child.”

“Mary—!” Greer exclaimed, jumping in her seat. “Why, that’s wonderful news, isn’t it? For your rule, that is,” she quickly amended just to be safe. “But how are you not showing? And how did you keep this secret?”

Mary’s cheeks burned bright red. “Because I’m only a week shy of three months,” she said self-consciously. “And I only found out, for sure that is, two weeks ago. Well,” she added, now flushed with embarrassment, “at least that’s what I think based on my counting.” 

“Oh,” Greer said then. “I just…” She shook her head. “You only told me you slept with Darnley for the consummation—”

“Forgive me for not telling you everything about my marriage, Greer,” Mary said then, not unkindly. 

Then it was Greer’s turn to blush. “Sorry, I know that was terrible of me, but I thought you hated him.”

“I do,” Mary said, “but, well, it’s complicated.”

Greer raised a brow. “ _Complicated?_ As in there might be something else there?”

Mary sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you have to tell me what happened! Or I will start jumping to conclusions.”

When Mary failed to respond, Greer said quietly, “You were just trying for an heir, right?”

Mary swallowed. Her mouth felt dry, so she reached for her tea and took a sip. “Um, no,” she said, replacing the cup. “We were arguing, about the Crown Matrimonial, he had written up a proposal, you remember me telling you that, and…” she shook her head, then covered her face with her hands. “And,” she said, feeling her face burn as she remembered, “one thing led to another, and…” She dropped her hands. “Oh, stop it, Greer! It just happened, alright?”

“I haven’t said anything!” Greer attested, “but now you have me quite interested.” She took a sip of her tea. “You and Darnley though. Never, not in my wildest dreams, would I have figured that.”

“But there is no _me_ and _him_ , Greer!” Mary snapped. “It was just one—I don’t know what to call it—just one time. Afterward, we went right back to where we were. We haven’t shared a bed since.”

“Do you regret that?”

“What? No, of course not, don’t be silly.”

It was a lie, and she knew it, but she prayed Greer would not see through it. In the uncertain days following that night they had shared, she, well a part of her at least, had wanted him back beside her in her bed, but she had been too proud to admit it to herself, let alone to him. She had hoped he would just come to her rooms and knock to be let in, so she would not have to go to him and ask, suffering the humility of it all, that he come back to her, but, for whatever reason, he had not, choosing instead to spend his nights with whichever woman so fancied him. 

“Mary, perhaps it was wrong for me to have teased you before, I realize that now. But please know you can talk to me. You know I’ve had my fair share of mistakes. I’ve made a mess of my own marriage.”

Mary exhaled. “Greer, this is different. It was an _accident_ , yes, but look at all the good that has come out of it! I will have an heir, and if it is a son, then there is no need for me to lie with Darnley ever again.”

“If that’s so, then why do you give him the time of day?”

“What? No, I told you we were just—”

“Mary,” Greer said, almost exasperated, “he’s the father of your child. You love him, admit it.”

“ _Me_?” Mary asked, pointing at herself, “ _Love Darnley?_ Greer, you can’t be serious.”

“I’ve seen you talking in the halls a few times now,” Greer said, “and you both look…happy. I’m assuming he knows about the baby then.”

“Well, yes, I told him,” Mary answered. “He had a right to know, after all.” She smiled despite herself. “I was surprised. I mean I wasn’t sure how he would take the news, but he seemed pleased.”

She caught Greer watching her then. “What? What is that look for?”

“If only you can see yourself, Mary,” Greer said, as if it was obvious. “Won’t you admit it to yourself that this is the happiest you have been since—” she stopped herself suddenly short.

“You mean since Francis,” Mary said flatly, as she recalled her first husband and their child she had lost.

“Yes,” Greer said solemnly. “Mary, you’re glowing. I can’t believe now that I know that I couldn’t guess before that you were with child.”

Mary laid an involuntary hand over her stomach. “Is it that obvious?”

“If you’re worried the Court will find out before you announce it, don’t worry. No one would think to guess knowing your history with Darnley, which,” she added with a smirk, “we are all misinformed about apparently.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Greer, I told you—”

“A bunch of lies, I suspect,” Greer answered. “But that’s okay because I want to help.”

“ _Help?_ ” Mary exclaimed, throwing her hands wide, “With what?”

“You rekindling whatever you had that night with Darnley,” Greer said. “But perhaps you two are doing well enough on your own by the looks of it.”

“Nothing has happened! I keep telling you! Why, won’t you believe me? Besides,” she said, crossing her arms defiantly. “It’s not like anything _can_ happen. I’m with child, remember?”

Greer gave her queen a knowing look. “You forget that I was once a madame of a brothel, Mary. And I can assure you that at three months, sex is not out of the question.”

Mary turned scarlet, then wilted in her seat. 

“Come on, Mary, you’re no nun. And I remember what it was like when I was pregnant with Rose. I desired to be with her father, but he was already gone, sailing the seas. The father of your child is here and your husband. Surely, you want—”

Mary buried her face in her hands. “It doesn’t matter what I want if he doesn’t want me.”

“ _What?_ What do you mean, not want you? Have you seen the way the man looks at you!”

Mary peeked through her hands to look up at her friend. “The night I conceived,” she said quietly, uncertainly, “that night we spent together, he never did come back to my rooms after that.”

“And what did you precisely tell him the morning he left your bed?”

“Why, I told him to leave of course,” Mary answered. “I was still upset with him about the stunt he pulled drawing up that proposal. I wasn’t about to allow him to think I had simply forgiven him for that after one night of sex. I mean really, Greer.” 

“Okay,” Greer said, “but did you at least hint that he was welcome in your bed as long as he was on his best behavior?”

Mary lowered her eyes. “Well, no,” she said rather self-consciously. “Not exactly.”

“Mary!” Greer exclaimed. “What is the poor man left to think then? No wonder he has not come to you these last few months! He probably thinks if he looks at you the wrong way, you’ll throw him out and marry another in his place.”

“Well,” Mary said wryly, looking down at her stomach, “that’s unlikely to happen now, considering. But…oh, Greer, what am I to do now? I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?”

“It’s nothing you can’t fix,” Greer said, confidingly. “I’m sure you can explain yourself to him, apologize to him even.”

Mary looked dumbfounded. “Apologize to _Darnley?_ ” she said incredulously. “Greer, why in God’s name would I do that when he has _never_ apologized to me for all the rotten things he’s done? No, I will not!” she said, folding her arms definitively over her chest. “No way!”

Greer sighed. “Mary, you do want him, don’t you?” she asked gently.

Mary slumped in her seat. “Yes,” she said softly. “But only because of the baby,” she added stiffly, only to rest her hand over her stomach once more. “Whatever I am to do about Darnley,” she said, “at least I’ll have my child with me on Christmas.”

“Christmas,” Greer mused, “why of course.” She sat up in her seat. “Mary, I have an idea. A way so you can have both your child and your husband for Christmas.”

“And how am I to do that?” Mary asked flatly, though a smile began to pave its way on her lips.

“Just leave all the doing to me,” Greer said. “We surely don’t want you making more of a mess out of things.”

Mary laughed despite herself.

“Aren’t you going to tell me anything, Greer?” she asked her friend, raising an inquisitive brow. 

“Yes,” Greer said. “Christmas Eve. After the feast. Whatever you do, make certain you are in your chamber room. Alone.”

“Okay,” Mary said, slightly uneasy. “Is that all?”

Greer tapped a finger against her lips as she thought, then turned to face Mary. “Yes,” she said definitively, “but do have in mind just how you wish to make things up to him.”

* * *

Mary continued to watch the snow falling gently out her chamber window, her mind still pondering over her conversation with Greer just a week before and the quick words she had exchanged with her in the hall the last few days while they each were about their separate tasks in preparation for the Christmas Eve feast, asking her just what machinations she was plotting for her and Darnley to which Greer had said, “Just remember what I told you. I’ll have the rest all sorted out. You’ll see.” 

It was Christmas Eve now and Mary was alone in her chamber room just as Greer said for her to be, herself still amongst the soundless falling snow outside her window, and still she did not see what Greer had in store this night for her and her husband, though she had ideas. It was getting late, the feast long done, the night drawing on to darkness inciting each participant to return to his own rooms for rest on this, the most holy night of the year. Mary thought to give up her vigil and retire too; she and the baby needed sleep after all, and what a better night for sleep there could not be, with the fire crackling in the hearth warming the chamber in stark contrast to the chilled air outside. 

_But sleep can wait_ , Mary thought to herself, vowing to wait a little while longer, having guessed Greer’s plan, the whimsical part of her dismissing her more cynical side that was telling her it was all for naught, her husband was probably in a drunken stupor himself this night after losing himself in his cups, as he was wont to do every time there was a celebration of some sort. Mary figured regrettably that this night, the eve of their savior’s birth, would be no different. And again, it would seem just as she was starting to have some faith in him once more these last few weeks, as they both quietly relished in the knowledge of their child they created together, he had let her down one more time, and perhaps when it mattered most of all. 

“Who am I trying to kid?” she muttered to herself, pressing her hand against the chilled glass of the window pane, the heat of her palm smudging the glass with condensation. “He’s not coming. He was never going to come.” She pressed her hand harder against the sharp cold of the glass, relishing the pain, any pain she could inflict upon herself for what she had already dealt herself out of a need for pride and righteous bitterness. 

“All this time I blamed him,” she said, laughing to herself, despite finding no mirth in her heart. “I never thought once on what I could have done better, the grief I’ve caused. And what a fool I was to think he’d forgiven me too just by telling him about our child, that that alone could erase the wounds I dealt.” She shook her head, dropped her hand from the glass. “Most likely, he’s spending Christmas drunk, or in the arms of another woman, and whose fault is that but my own, for failing to tell him that I…”

A knock came at the door, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned from the window to the room about her cast aglow from the hearth and the array of candles she had made certain to light herself in preparation for this night. She would expect no servant to do her penance for her. 

It took her a moment to register the knock and configure in her mind all the possibilities regarding it. She had expressed to her maidservants that none of them were to visit her this night, and the odds of important news to be delivered to her door at this hour were rare at best. That only left… She did not want to get her hopes up that it was him. She did not want to go to the door and open it to find another in his place, herself no longer a Queen, but made a fool at the duplicity, but nor did she want it to show on her face the relief and the joy that if it was him, his sight brought her. 

She was in a conundrum. The way she saw it, she could either answer the door and risk her pride, or she could wait and the stranger outside would most likely leave her door, herself left none the wiser to his identity. She knew of the two which was the worse outcome, and with an indrawn breath to steady her nerves, she went to the door and drew it tentatively open. 

“Darnley,” she said, failing at once to mask the surprise and elation in her voice.

“Mary,” he said, in that way only he knew how to say her name.

She cleared her throat, deciding to play down her reaction and mask her true feelings with an air of aloofness. “It’s rather late,” she said almost disapprovingly, even as her heart hammered in her chest. Her tone changed to one of curiosity however once her eyes fell upon the object he carried in his hand. “And you have a bottle of wine?”

He looked down at the bottle he held. “Well…yes,” he said abstractedly, as if he just remembered it. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t drunk it already,” she said, then immediately regretted her words.

But he laughed. “So am I, actually,” he said. “But I don’t think it’s quite right for a man to drink alone on Christmas.”

“It’s not Christmas yet,” she said, teasing him. “We have a few hours or so yet.”

“Plenty of time then,” he said.

“For?” she asked coolly, despite her pounding heart.

He looked away, then sighed, turning to look up at her once more, his face at once a mix of pride and embarrassment. “To ask you,” he said, humbling himself, “whether it would be alright if I came in and we drank this bottle together?”

She looked up at him aghast, as if she could not believe her ears, and she caught herself wondering what it had been that Greer had said to him to cause this display of utter humility, a first as far she was concerned, as he had come to her bearing a gift, and had asked her for nothing in return except her hospitality. 

She opened her mouth to retort, then stopped herself short, remembering then Greer’s words to her. _But do have in mind just how you wish to make things up to him._

She shook her head, disbelievingly at herself, then swallowing her own pride, said with a nod to her chamber, “Alright then.” She stepped back into the room, and insisted he follow her.

He did so at once, shutting the door behind him. “Mary,” he said, looking about the room, at the candles lit and flickering their warm light upon the desk table, the draped greenery resting on both the sills and mantle, and the fire crackling below in the hearth. “This is nice,” he said, as she reached to take the bottle from his hand and set it down on the study table. She found two glasses and was starting to pour when he said all of a sudden, “Were you expecting someone?”

She smiled as she poured, her eyes flitting up to meet his knowingly. 

“Oh,” he said, “then Greer, she talked to you too?”

She handed him his glass and he took a swig, as she picked up her own. “Yes,” she said simply. “This was her idea.”

“And you agreed?” he asked, studying her over his glass.

She laughed. “Well, apparently you did too,” she said smartly, as she took a sip from her own glass.

“Fair enough,” he answered her with a short laugh of his own. 

They fell silent for a time then, the both of them just soaking in the quiet atmosphere of the room, and its sense of intimacy and comfort, a warm haven from the dark snowy night outside. It had been many months since the last time they knew such silence between them, a need for wordlessness, and never before like this, out of a mutual desire at the onslaught to be in the other’s company. Mary could feel that something was different in the air this time and she did not know whether she should be thanking Greer for the magic she had worked or whether it was something about the Christmas season that had transfixed them so or whether yet again it was knowledge of their child growing at that moment in her womb or something else altogether. What she did know was that she kept sneaking looks at Darnley over her glass as she sipped her wine, and that when she inevitably looked away, she could feel his eyes on her, her body burning as they trailed her close-fitting gown. 

“But why, Mary?” he asked all of a sudden, breaking the silence they had been enveloped in that had felt both like an eternity and timelessness all at once. “If this setup is Greer’s doing, why did you agree? I know things have been different lately with the baby, but still, I’m not exactly your favorite. We both know how much you enjoy my company.”

Mary swallowed uncomfortably, then set her glass down on the table. “Let’s not start something, Darnley. Not now. Not on the night before Christmas.” It was the wrong thing to say, and she knew it, but only once it was too late.

Darnley sighed. “You see, Mary?” he said. “I can’t even ask you a simple question and you think the worst of me.” He shook his head. “Forget it,” he said, heading for the door. “I don’t know why I bother with you when I could be spending this night with someone who actually cares about me.”

“You mean that Russian whore you love more than me?” The words were out of her mouth before she could think the better of them. Whatever their intent, they got his attention though and he turned back to face her, a look of surprise on his face. She lowered her eyes from his, clearing her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me. It must be the wine.”

“It’s not the wine,” he said simply, his voice softening. “You hardly had any to drink.”

Her cheeks flushed. She shook her head. “I know,” she said. “I’m just tired then. The baby.”

“Right,” he said. “You probably should be in bed. Would you like me to send for someone?”

His suggestion, the care in his voice, it suddenly angered her. She was no child to be put to bed, she was a Queen, a Queen who got what she wanted, and she wanted to spend this Christmas Eve night with him as her husband, and so far, she was ruining every last chance of that happening. 

“Why?” she asked, frustrated and angry at him, but mostly herself. “Just so you can fuck whomever you please?”

He looked taken aback, but took a step towards her. “What is this about, Mary?” he asked. “Why did you invite me here just to yell at me?”

“I’m not yelling.”

He sighed. “Then why are you upset?”

She just looked at him helplessly, the words caught and lodged in her throat. No matter how hard she tried she could not voice them.

“Okay, since you don’t want to talk, maybe it’s best if I just go,” he said, turning his back on her.

And that was when she heard Greer’s words to her once more, and she knew she had made a mess once again of yet another chance to win him back to her side, as he had been with her in the beginning of their summer courtship before politics and ambition and the ghosts of former loves led them astray. She felt the tears sting in her eyes, but she would not let them fall. God damn her and her reign if they fell in cascades against her wine-flushed cheeks. 

“Darnley,” she said, though her voice wavered. “Don’t go. Please, not on Christmas.”

He hesitated before the door, and for a moment she thought he would reach for the handle and walk on out, but at the last he relented. “I’m tired, Mary,” he said. “I’m tired of fighting with you. I’m tired of waiting for you to make up your damn mind.”

She exhaled an escaped breath. “About what?” she said. She did not even notice the hand she laid protectively, reassuringly over her womb.

He turned to face her standing there, aglow beside the lit hearth. “You know,” he said, “and yet you won’t admit it, not to me, not to yourself most of all.”

She stared at him, her mouth fallen open agape. Her secret, how long did he know it? And if he knew it, why had he not come back to her rooms again after that night they had shared? Deep down, she knew why. But she did not want to admit it to herself. To do so she would have to swallow her pride, and that proved too difficult. She would much rather swallow stones. 

“What do you want me to say?” she asked. “Tell me, and I’ll say it. I will. I promise.”

“It won’t mean anything if I tell you,” he said dismissively. 

“What is it? What do you want?” she asked again, her voice growing frantic, urgent, as she stepped towards him. “Do you want me to say that I love you, Henry? Is that what you want?”

“You know what I want, damn you,” he said. “I told you what I wanted for us, and I humiliated myself before you to get it, and yet you denied me all the same.”

She took his hands in hers and kissed them softly, persistently. “I was angry,” she said, looking up at him. “And your Queen, whom you have defied time after time. Why weren’t you content with the title I gave you?”

“Don’t make this about me,” he said, pulling his hands away from her own. “You never could see your own share of the blame.” 

_Blame._ The word echoed in her mind, like a stone tumbling down a well when it hits bottom. How many chances had she been given that she had so carelessly dropped, watching passively as they tumbled on down the dried-up shaft that was her marriage? And where were the rains to fill it again? She should have been drawing up buckets of water, the nourishment of life, and yet here she was hurtling stones in each and every direction, with her arm tired of throwing. All she wanted now was for it all to stop. 

Without thinking, she reached out for his hand, securing it in her own. “Then let me make it up to you,” she said, her voice echoing the words he once spoke to her in this very same room.

“And how—” he began, but before he could finish, she sealed his mouth with a kiss. Soft, tender, apologetic, her mouth moved against his and he responded instantly in turn, reaching his hands up to brace her back, his fingers running through the strands of her hair. 

She broke the kiss before he was ready, catching him off guard. She would make up for it later, she decided. Right then though, she had something more pressing to do with her mouth, and that was to speak the words she should have spoken to him on that balmy late summer night three months before when they had found themselves spent and satisfied in each other’s arms.

“I have always loved you, Darnley,” she said then. “I just never knew it before that night you came to my rooms demanding that I name you King. It wasn’t in that moment, but after, sometime during the quiet stillness of that night we shared, that was when I knew. I was filled with the sense of knowing and I wanted to tell you, but then I thought of all the times you hurt me, and I a Queen, and I knew I could not forgive you so easily. So, when I sent you from my bed, I didn’t tell you, as much as I wanted to, that what I really wanted all along was for you to stay.”

He stared at her.

“That is why you never came back, isn’t it?” she pressed on. “I thought for so long it was because you didn’t love me, but it was my fault for not saying what I should…”

“Mary,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh, Mary.”

She pressed her forehead against his. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright now,” he said, kissing her softly. “I forgive you.”

She shivered despite the warmth of the chamber. She never thought to be absolved so easily. “Darnley,” she said, moving to look up at him. “Remember when you asked me if this was all Greer’s doing? I’ll admit it was her idea that set it all in motion, but it was me who wanted this.”

“I know,” he said. “But it’s still nice to hear it from you. So, did she arrange for all this?” he asked, gesturing towards the room’s decorations, “Or did you?”

“Actually, it was all my doing,” she said. “I did this myself. Without help.”

“Really?” he said. “Well, you did a marvelous job. It’s quite festive.”

“Thank you,” she said, “but it’s not even half of what I had in mind.”

“What? More than this?” he asked, amused.

“Greer told me to try to make things up to you, so I did. Well,” she amended, blushing becomingly in the firelight, “I made a mess of it for a while there, but I guess I came round in the end. There’s still more though.”

“Oh, there is?”

“Yes.”

“And what is that?” he asked, curious.

“Come to bed with me and I’ll show you,” she said mysteriously. 

And with that she led him into the other room, that appeared just as bedecked in greenery and light. She had a thought as she sat down upon the bed, willingly this time, of the last time they were here together the both of them in this room, the two of them yet unknowing how the night to come would change them for the better. This night, she hoped their coupling would change them for good.

Darnley came to sit on the bedspread beside her, a carmine cover of warm wool, which proved most suitable now in the midst of the Scottish winter. He looked up from the bed to the headboard hung with pine boughs, still fragrant with their resiny scent. On the sill across the bed sat a solitary candle in a holder, lighting up the space of the room, and lone surveyor to the snow still falling outside in piling drifts against the castle’s sturdy walls. If the outer room had been cozy and tranquil, then this chamber was damn divine. 

“What do you think?” Mary asked, as she watched him take it all in. 

“It’s lovely, Mary,” he said. “But,” he said, turning to look at her, “if I did not know you were already with child, I would think, well…”

She took his hand and laid it on her breast, to which he glanced up at her surprised. “Who says we cannot?” she asked quietly, barely a murmur above her ramming heart. 

“Mary—”

“I want you to make love to me, Darnley,” she said. 

When he hesitated, she said, “It’s fine. It’s early yet still. No harm will come to the baby.”

“No,” he said, “it’s not that. I mean, I did think of that, but…” He shook his head incomprehensibly. “Do you really want this? Want…me?”

“Darnley,” she said, reproachingly. “That was kinda the whole point. You convinced me not so long ago to allow you to pleasure me, now I’m asking you to.”

He gave a short laugh, running his hand over her bosom, his fingers finding in the semi-lit dark the strings to her bodice. He pulled them loose. “Well, if the Queen insists.”

“She does,” Mary answered, steadying her exhaled breath. Desire thrummed in her veins.

He took his time undressing her, stopping here and there to admire her exposed skin that glowed in the light of the flickering candle on the sill. When he freed her bosom, she felt his eyes drink her breasts, which were now heavier with the pregnancy, and she shivered with anticipation as she felt his hands glide over them and down her waist as he pulled the rest of her gown down her body. He stopped himself when he saw her stomach and its slight swell, and she caught him smiling to himself at sight of it, and in that instant, she knew the thought on his mind.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You can touch him. It’s too early yet to feel him, but…”

Darnley laid a hand over her womb, and Mary would cherish for the rest of her life the look of awe on his face at that first touch. 

“No,” he said, “I can tell he’s there. Mary, you mean to tell me that we actually did this?”

“Well, I haven’t exactly slept with anyone else, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said, laughing.

He laughed then himself. “No, I know that. It’s just…marvelous. To think that I’m actually going to be a father, and of a future King no less.”

She smiled at him, and in response he kissed her tenderly on the lips, his one hand caressing her cheek and the other holding their child. 

In the rush of exhilaration she felt, with his mouth moving now all the more urgently against hers, Mary started unfastening the strings to his shirt, pulling them apart to expose the heat of his bare chest. She broke her lips from his then to bury her head against him, drawing warmth from the heat of his naked skin. Her mouth moved over his nipples, as she kissed him over and over again. 

“Mary,” he breathed, bending to kiss her forehead, and nestling his head against her hair as she kissed his chest. 

“I want you, Darnley,” she said between breaths, her hands reaching downward to grapple with the buckle of his pants.

“As I you,” he said, though he grabbed hold of her hands to stop her.

She looked up at him. “What’s wrong then?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, breathing heavily. “I just want to savor this.” 

“Okay, then,” she said then, making to kiss his lips again. 

“And,” he said, his eyes falling from her face down to her naked breasts. “I want to see you first. All of you, Mary.”

Her eyes widened, and goose prickles rose on her flesh. “Of course,” she answered, a coy look in her eyes as they darted up to meet his. 

“Allow me then to get rid of this,” she said, as she stripped herself of her gown and tossed it carelessly over her shoulder to the floor behind her.

“Well?” she asked as she felt his eyes drink her flesh, the curves of breast, waist, and thigh. “Are you satisfied?”

He exhaled. “I was a fool, Mary,” he said.

“A fool?” she questioned, her eyes wry with knowing. “And how so?” she asked, leaning her naked body against him suggestively, her hands resting atop his shoulders. 

He looked up nervously from her body to meet her eyes. “To think any other woman could compare to you,” he answered.

“You were a fool,” she told him, caressing his cheek, ruffling her hand through his hair. “But you are my fool, Henry, and I would have no other.” 

He sighed against her hand. 

“Now,” she said, straddling him, as she brought her hand down to his crotch, playing once again with the belt buckle. “It’s your turn. Fair is fair,” she said with a smirk.

He sat back as he allowed her to slowly undress him, his breathing growing rapid as she toyed with his belt and then in one swift motion, unfastening it, tossed it to the side of the bed. She drew her hand lower then and laid it over his manhood, exhaling her own quickening breath.

“You’re already hard for me, Henry,” she said, leaning her forehead against his. “I thought you said you wanted to savor this.”

“I do,” he said against her mouth, kissing her softly. “And trust me,” he said, biting her lip, “we’ll go slowly, so slowly that by the end of it you’ll be crying out my name.”

“Challenge accepted,” she said, breaking from his mouth to pull off his shirt. It fell with a mild thump upon the bedspread. 

He pushed her down against the bedcovers then, her head falling against the pillows, as he quickly stripped himself of his pants and moved to cover her naked body with his own. She felt the heat that radiated off his naked skin, relishing the warmth of him, and pulled him by the shoulders down on atop of her. Their foreheads touched and she reached up to kiss him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He kissed her back, pressing his mouth against hers with unabashed hunger. As he leaned in close, she could feel the hardness of his cock against her legs, and the thought of him wanting her so very badly caused her to moan against his lips. 

“What is it, love?” he breathed against her cheek. 

“I want you inside of me,” she said, panting, as she caressed his face, forcing him to look her in the eye. “I want to feel you within me, Darnley.”

He laughed. “Alright,” he said against her mouth as he kissed her again, then moved to nudge her legs apart.

She expected him to enter her in that moment her legs fell open, but something stopped him, and instead she felt his hand touching the folds of her sex. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, her breath catching short.

“Just checking,” he answered, sounding satisfied, then said his voice all matter of fact, “You’re already wet for me, Mary.”

She shivered despite herself. “I don’t need you to tell me that,” she said, sighing through a smile. “What I need is you moving within me.”

“And you will have that,” he said, his hand reaching down lower to caress her thigh. “You’re all goose pimples down here, Mary.”

“Darnley—” she said.

“Shh, I know,” he said, bending to kiss her lips. “Trust me, I want it too. See?” he breathed, as he eased himself inside of her, and she sighed at the feel of him within her body.

For a time, their movement was slow, rhythmic, steady as the beating of a war drum, and yet, paradoxically, it was the first time they ever came onto each other unarmed, shields lowered. Where Darnley touched her, Mary felt her veins rising to the surface of her skin, the blood bubbling within them surging with heat, so that when her mouth met his it tasted of fire. Her mouth on his, so hot, he had to break away for air, and in that breath, he thrusted himself deeper into her sex. 

Mary gasped in turn, her body undulating beneath the fervor of his thrust. She reached a hand up to touch his face to urge him to look down at her, and he did with a brief look of surprise at her touch so ginger in comparison to the way he now handled her, as he drove himself in and out of her in quick succession. 

“How is this, my love?” he asked her then, his words a staccato between breaths. “Do you like the feel of me yet?” 

“ _Y-yes_ ,” she answered him, equally breathless. “But, _oh_ , Darnley, do go faster.”

It was the only encouragement he needed, for he was then ramming himself against her walls as they contracted about him. In response to his quickening pace and her own growing climax, Mary threw her arms about his back to drive him onward faster still.

“Oh, _God_ , Mary,” she heard him say, as she felt him trembling above her. “I don’t think I can hold out much longer. Are you close?”

“Yes,” she breathed through another wave of pleasure rippling through her body, “ _Oh_ , yes.” Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him down to whisper in his ear. “Cum within me, Darnley.”

He gave a few more thrusts, and then on the last she felt his orgasm shuddering through her body and she came with a cry like he said she would. 

Exhausted, he fell against her and he buried his head in the nape of her neck, the drops of sweat falling from his hair to dampen the pillow she rested upon. She sighed beside him, as her heart continued to hammer in her chest, taking its time to fall back to its steady cadence. 

They were still intwined, and he made no move to slip out of her yet, which pleased Mary. She turned her head then to nestle herself against him, and she heard him laugh in response. 

“What is it?” she asked him softly, as she reached up a hand to caress his hair, her voice hardly more than a murmur. 

He moved to look at her, raising a hand to touch her cheek. “Nothing,” he said, “Just you. It’s…” he added in clarification to her bemused look, “just nice to be with you again, like this.”

She smiled and moved to kiss his cheek. “It is,” she agreed. “It has been too long,” she added then, looking downward sheepishly, as she laid an involuntary hand across her stomach. 

He looked down at her hand then back up to meet her eyes, and she knew at once that he knew where her mind had strayed. 

“You’ll be a beautiful mother,” he said then, caressing her shoulder. 

She smiled by reflex, then caught herself. “Well, I had hoped to be a _good_ mother,” she said with a hint of self-deprecation.

“You think you won’t?” he asked.

“It’s not that exactly,” she said. “It’s more like that I am afraid.” She looked downward at her hand over her womb, studying that simple gesture as if it could possibly be enough to protect her child from every danger known and unknown, seen and unseen. Then she glanced back up at her husband, realizing that it was finally safe to tell him of the dark space in her memory where her mind had strayed. “You don’t know this,” she began, “few people do, _anymore_ ,” she added wistfully, “but when I was wed to Francis, we did conceive. Our marriage was not barren as they say. I was going to have a baby, Francis’s baby, but I lost it.”

He sighed, and she watched as the tension dispelled from his body. She wondered if he had been relieved to hear of her miscarriage, to know that she did not have a secret child, living out there somewhere in the world, with another man. She wanted to ask him, to be certain, but stopped herself, fearing that such a direct question would spoil the night with him she had fought so hard to receive. She could always ask him again later, another time, at a moment that was significantly less pivotal, she thought, but then again what if she did and he gave the answer she did not want to hear? What then? She expected she could not blame him then after all, his response being only and subjectively human. 

He opened his mouth to speak then stopped himself, as if he had thought better of his words. “Mary,” he tried again a second time, reaching up to brush her cheek, and she closed her eyes all the better to know his touch, not Francis’s the moment he had held her that dreadful day in the infirmary. “It will be different this time.”

She opened her eyes to look at him. “How do you know?” she asked, her voice small and uncertain.

“Because it already is,” he said. “You’re three months.” 

“How did—” she began before he stopped her.

“I can count too, you know,” he said. 

She blushed. “Well, yes,” she said, “but still, pregnant women suffer complications all the time. I may be past the riskiest point but still, that doesn’t take into account so many things, including childbirth.”

“And yet you were so inclined that we sleep together?” he asked, raising a skeptical brow.

She smiled despite herself. “That’s different,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. “There’s no harm in it. Greer told me, and,” she stopped herself as she searched for the right words. Coming up with none that would not divulge her friend’s own secrets, she said simply, “she has a way of knowing these sorts of things.”

“I see,” he said. “But Mary,” he added then, “there’s no reason to concern yourself with this now because”—and here he laid a hand over her womb—“this baby isn’t going anywhere,” he finished. “I can assure you of that.”

“How?” she asked. “How can you _know_ for certain that everything will be okay? The physicians even—”

“Fuck what the physicians say,” he said. “It’s going to be different this time because I’m going to be here with you every step of the way, alright? That’s why.”

“Darnley—” she began, only for her voice to break down and the tears to well in her eyes and come spilling down her cheeks.

“Mary,” he said, wiping away her tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“No, it’s okay,” she said, once she could speak. “I get emotional very easily. It’s something about having the baby.”

“Well, I can see that,” he said with a laugh.

She punched him softly in the arm.

“Alright then,” he said, gathering her in his arms. “I won’t tease you.”

“Good,” she said, kissing his cheek.

“Do you feel better though?” he asked her seriously. 

She had to think for a moment. “I guess so,” she said. “I was so young before and I didn’t know what I was doing, but now I’m older, wiser, and have support. I have Greer now, and you,” she said turning to face him, her face radiating with joy. “Is this it then?” she asked him all of a sudden. 

“Is this what?” he asked awfully confused. 

She rolled her eyes at him. “You know, the moment where we make peace with our differences and live happily ever after.”

He snorted. “Are you asking for a miracle?”

She gaped at him. “You’re seriously going to fight me on this, _now?_ ”

“ _No_ ,” he said, only to sigh. “Mary, I love you, I do, and I will support you when it comes to the baby absolutely, but you cannot honestly continue to expect so much from me without giving me anything in return.”

“Don’t you dare bring up the Crown Matrimonial,” she said more to herself than to him. “Not now, not like this.”

He fell silent, only to ask a moment later gingerly, “Why won’t you let me be a proper husband to you, Mary?”

The words washed over her, and she surprised herself when she opened her own mouth to at last answer the question that had been on both their minds for so very long. “Because I never did know if I could trust you,” she said.

He laughed despite himself, shaking his head. “And yet what did you do three months ago when we laid together? And again, when you told me about our child? And just now when you told me of the one you lost? You’ve done nothing but _trust_ me, Mary.”

“I know,” she said softly. 

“Then what is it?” he asked. 

She shook her head, clearing it of the all the memories of her life visiting her like will-o’-the-wisps on the wind. “I was afraid,” she said, turning to face him. “I was afraid I would love you, and lose myself to you, just like I lost myself when I lost Francis.” 

He looked down. “Mary, I didn’t mean—“

“No, it’s alright,” she said then, reaching her hand out to clasp his own. “I was wrong. I see that now. Whatever I thought I was trying to prove to you this night was really just a test for myself. My former mother-in-law once said to me that ‘happiness is the one thing we queens can never have,’ and when I was young and newly wed to her son and so very happy, I scorned her words, but then they proved true. Francis died, and I was miserable, a hollowed-out shell of who I used to be and I didn’t know how to find my way back to myself. But I see now. Happiness is in the choices we make, not in what happens to us. It’s always there if we’re just willing to search for it.” 

She looked down then at his hand she held tightly in her own and gave it a slight reassuring squeeze. “And Darnley,” she said, exhaling her uncertainty, “as much as I resisted you and neglected you due to my own insipid fears, for which I am most terribly sorry, I know now that _you_ are my happiness. I mean it wasn’t until Greer essentially called me out, but these last few weeks sharing with you the knowledge of our baby have been some of the happiest moments of my life. And I want that to continue. I want you in my life. I want to raise our child together. I had thought, wrongly, you’d just let me do what I choose because I am Queen, but I see now that I can’t keep asking so much of you while giving nothing in return. You’re right,” she said with a swallow, “marriage _is_ a partnership, you’ve proven that to me now, but so is _our_ reign. I would not be Queen of Scotland without the support you have given me, I understand that now, so I _will_ rethink the issue of making you a proper King at last, so that we can rule side by side together once and for all. _I promise_.”

His eyes fell closed then, as if in rest after a long and bitter battle. Then he sighed, reopening them to gaze upon her. “Oh, Mary,” he said with such longing in his voice, as he moved to kiss her lips. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Nothing’s been done yet,” she reminded him softly. “The privy council still has to agree.”

“I know,” he said. “When do you think you’ll bring it up to them?”

She touched his cheek lovingly. “Why not tomorrow? After the other news I plan to share at the celebration.”

“What? On Christmas?” he asked, and then a moment later, “And what news?”

“I’m thinking of telling the people that we are expecting,” she said simply. “It seems like a proper moment after all. Everyone will be gathered already, so it makes the logistics that much easier.”

He smiled at her. “Well, that, and it’s most fitting don’t you think? To announce the news of our child on the very day the Virgin gave birth to Christ.”

She smirked at him. “Yes, it does send a particular message, one that will go over quite well with the Catholics,” she said. 

He gave a short laugh.

“What?” she said, nudging him.

“I’m thinking of that bottle of wine we left in the other room.”

“And what for?” she asked, perplexed.

“Because this is a moment worth celebrating,” he answered her, “don’t you think?”

She looked up at him, just taking him in. “Well, yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“Alright then, just stay here and make yourself comfortable, and I’ll go get it,” he said, giving her a short kiss as he hopped out of bed. 

“Okay,” she said, moving to slip under the covers as she waited for him to return.

He was back in a moment with the bottle in hand.

She looked him up and down. “Did you not think to grab our glasses?” she asked him.

“We don’t need them,” he said easily. “Besides, that would have resulted in another trip. How do you expect me to carry them too?”

She shook her head. “Alright,” she said, pointing at the bottle, as he got in bed beside her, “just hand me that then.” 

He did, but not until after he took a drink himself. “Here’s to us,” he said, handing her the bottle. 

“To us,” she echoed him, watching him fondly, and took a long, deserved drink. 


End file.
